


In the Hands of the Bassist

by SnowStormSkies



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Complete, Erotica, Established Relationship, F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Massage, Sexual Content, loving relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s Tomi, come to him for some comfort and cuddles, and a warm body to curl up next to. It’s what the guitarist always wants after a show that doesn’t go like she wanted the perfectionist in her needing reassurance after a bad performance. She’ll get that, he thinks to himself as he goes to open the door for her, she’ll get that and more. </i>
</p><p> – </p><p>Tomi has her period and Georg has hands stolen straight from the Gods themselves. (Always!A!Girl!Tom, and long term relationship inside!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> A response to this prompt on the Tokio Hotel Anonymous Kink Meme - 
> 
> Georg/Girl!Tom - It's that time of month. Georg helps take care of his girlfriend's discomfort. Fluff or porn or both. Any and all will be loved.

** Title: ** In the Hands of the Bassist

** Author:  ** SnowStormSkies

** Universe:  ** Tokio Hotel RPF

** Theme/Topic:  ** It’s Tomi’s time of the month and Gustav is a wonderful enabler for Georg to do boyfriendly things to his girlfriend. 

** Rating:  ** Mature/Explicit/NC-17.

** Characters:  ** Mainly focused on Tomi and Georg, with appearances from Gustav and Bill as well~

** Warnings/Spoilers:  ** Girl!Tom and lots of erotic massage/visualisation. Also, Georg is an incurable romantic.

** Word Count:  ** 10,807 words.

** Time:  ** About a week, writing about a thousand words a shot, maybe more.

** Summary:  ** _ It’s Tomi, come to him for some comfort and cuddles, and a warm body to curl up next to. It’s what the guitarist always wants after a show that doesn’t go like she wanted the perfectionist in her needing reassurance after a bad performance. She’ll get that, he thinks to himself as he goes to open the door for her, she’ll get that and more. –  _ Tomi has her period and Georg has hands stolen straight from the Gods themselves.

**Dedication:** To every girl who wants a Georg, and the fact that he's now twenty five! Happy Birthday Georch.

** A/N:  ** Why, God, why? I don’t know why I a) picked a prompt that has already been filled, and b) why I chose to write het because this is my very first proper het in the eight/nine years I’ve been in fandom. That is scary as fuck, people. Not to mention the fact that this is het porn… Well, porn lite. Porn-With-Excessive Amounts of Plot? Something like that, anyway. Also, I have no patience for HTML, I hate pizza because I have eaten nothing but pizza all bloody week and I want Diet Coke like I want a shot in the head. 

** Distribution:  ** Can be found here on the kink meme, here on AO3, here on th_fiction, and here on tokiohotelfiction. I’m generous with cross posting! 

  


**_ Part One  
  
...and a coffee machine that's possessed by the devil itself... _ **

This green room sucks, Georg decides.

And it does. 

The couch is shot to pieces, balding in huge patch and with flat cushions, the coffee machine is evil because it tried to projectile vomit boiling hot water and coffee dregs on Gustav when the drummer went for a drink from it and the paintings on the wall have faded into weird, bland shapes that could in another place be considered another form of art, but here are just… bland. And weird. They’ve been in worse places, but not many – now that Tokio Hotel is on the meteoric rise to stardom that Bill set them on, these sorts of rooms are tending to become things of the past, to be swiftly replaced with luxurious leather, a cold beer for after the show and people who _bring_ them coffee instead of having making it themselves. 

Not to mention fringe benefits like decent motherfucking **art**. 

He can’t help it – the wall decorations in here are consuming his attention when he should be practising with the bass in his lap but he’s helplessly drawn back into staring at the one on the wall opposite the greying couch he staked out for himself.  
  
It’s supposed to be a pleasant farming scene, according to the handy dandy little piece of paper taped up beside it, by some local fuckwit artist. He thinks it **could** be a farming scene. Possibly. Maybe. If he turns his head and squints like _so…_ Ye – No. No. It’s not really helping. Still just a load of blobs. There’s _green_ in it; a lot of green, if that means anything but Georg rather suspects it doesn’t. The amount of artistic talent in the painting is… _bad_ enough that Georg is playing hunt the alien in it because the black and white blobs don’t look much like the cows they’re apparently supposed to be. So far, he’s come up with six different ones (two with _tentacles_ in interesting places) and a possible one of David with a unicorn horn stuck through him. It’s not often Georg gets side tracked by paintings but holy fuck, those things are **_ugly_.**

Coming back to himself for a moment, he tries to concentrate on playing his bass but he can’t. He’s distracted by the sound of pacing behind him, the constant noise that’s now grinding into his brain, wearing down his temper that is, to be fair, phenomenally relaxed most of the time. _Step step step step step step step_ – squeak of shoe, rustle of clothes – _step step step step step step step step step_ – shoe squeak, more rustling – _step step step step step step step step step-_ rinse and repeat ad infinitum since they arrived in this place two hours ago.  
  
He purses his lips, focuses on breathing deeply and staying calm, but on the eighth repetition since he clued back into the world, he’s had enough. He’s stressed enough as it is about this concert, he doesn’t need this right now. He snaps back a hand, reaches out for whoever the fuck is annoying him – it’s _Bill,_ he fucking knows it is because when the younger twin is nervous he paces while he tries to remember his lines, and it drives Georg up the fucking wall when he does it behind his back because he hates things happening behind his fucking back. In front of him, he doesn’t give a shit. You could put dance the Dance of the Seven Veils in front of him with a five foot overweight wrestler and a fireworks display and he would just sit back and chill with it. Behind his back, he hates it; even if it’s people he knows. He _will_ kill you. 

“What the fuck, Bill?” He demands, pulling the singer to the back of the sofa, intent on pulling the spiked haired boy down onto the seat so he can stop driving him up the – 

It’s not Bill. 

Instead, he finds himself looking at a face that could be Bill’s – it’s the same eyes, the same nose, those same lips – but all with a subtle feminine twist, a gentling of features that the younger twin doesn’t have for all his make-up. The lip ring in that delightfully kissable lower lip might have something to do with as well. Or the dreadlocks. 

Tomi. 

“What the hell, Hagen?” The dreadhead says, trying to pull back her wrist. “Lemme go!” She snarls at him, all teeth and annoyed huffing at the bassist’s strong grip on her arm. He’s not hurting her, just holding her tightly and unless she does something dramatic, she ain’t getting away now. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” No good trying to escape Georg now, he’s on the case. Something’s bothering Tomi and he wants to know what. “Come here.” He says, stowing his base on the stand beside the arm of the sofa with one arm as he pulls her over the back of the sofa with the other. She resists for a moment but it’s no good – Georg has been bench pressing her weight and more for over a year now, got the arms to prove it, and she doesn’t really want to stand her ground, anyway. If she did, Georg would have got a face full of fist – he’s had it before. Tomi is _not_ the girl who goes quietly when she doesn’t want to. Now, she sulkily lifts one leg over the back of the sofa, then the other before Georg pulls her down to sit next to him, heedless of her shoes on the cushions on the sofa. 

It’s crappy enough already, and it’s not like Tomi has dirt on her pristine black Reeboks, anyway. They’re two years old, and look like they’ve never been worn before. 

“Hey.” He says, not trying to pull her out of the ball she’s got herself curled in; a mass of black jeans, black t-shirt, black undershirt, black everything. Even her caps are black which is odd – Tomi likes colour normally, carefully colour matches her shoelaces to her t-shirts and cap. “What’s wrong, Tomi?” He strokes one finger down the side of that soft neck, brushing it against all the exposed flesh that he can reach, and watches in mild fascination as the tension ripples through the muscle and fine skin there.  
  
Tomi’s so sensitive all the time – it’s one of the things he can’t get enough of; one finger down her side, a kiss pressed behind her ear, a nibble of teeth on her breast and she’s just so responsive, blushing and moving away or pressing herself closer to him, asking for just one more kiss, one more touch, one more movement to send her over the edge. He’s never been with someone so in tune with their own body – every day is a new day to discover new things about Tomi’s sensitivity, her likes and dislikes for touch and fingers, and lips and teeth and tongue.  
  
He loves pushing each and every button of hers, making her blush and stammer and look at him with those big brown eyes with a haze of lust, or embarrassment or love. But now… now she needs more than that, more than him pawing indiscriminately at her.  She needs him to be her _boyfriend_. 

“’M fine.” She says to her knees, and Georg doesn’t need the last two years of practically living together to tell him that she’s lying. Her skin is pale but she has high colour in her cheeks, her eyes, for the brief moment he saw them, were narrowed, and she’s constantly rocking in place, little tiny movements that he knows are unconscious. He knows the signs, knows them well. 

“Red Fairy?” he says, using the code name that Gustav adopted years ago, when they first started playing together, back when they were still Devilish and puberty was making life really really fun and not so fun at the same time. The blond drummer had an older sister and his mum living in the same house; he knew the score even way back when.  

“Fuck you.” The dreads wriggle as she tries to stuff her head even further into her knees and away from Georg, who is giving her that soft, knowing smile that he knows she hates and loves at the same time. 

“Do you need anything?”

“You to shut the fuck up.” Tomi doesn’t mean it – the hand that sneaks out from the huddle that is his girlfriend to grab onto his says more than her words right now. “Oh _owww…”_   She says, rocking a bit faster. “Fuck, that hurts.” She rocks back and forth faster, whimpering quietly to herself. 

Georg checks on his bass, makes sure it’s secure on the wire stand before he shuffles down to sit next to Tomi, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to rest against his chest. “No – don’t. **Let me**.” He says when she tries to give token resistance but it’s par for the course with Tomi; she doesn’t like to seem weak and for some reason she thinks comfort like this means _she’s weak._ One day, Georg will show her how strong she really is, but not today. Today, he’s more than happy to be the strong one.  
  
Her protest is short-lived, just as he knew it would be; before long she’s caving to him, shuffling down the couch to sit closer to him. She settles against his chest and because she’s Tomi and just has to have some control, she threads their hands together immediately. He kisses the top of her head and breathes deep – her pretty blonde dreads smell like coconut wax, mixed with that scent that’s her cayenne pepper shower gel and the unique smell that’s just _Tomi_ in his books. She smells a-fucking- _mazing_ , but the ways she’s still rocking back and forth means he can’t sit here and snuggle – 

The door bangs open. 

Bill. 

Always likes to make an entrance, that one. 

“Tomi!” he says, loudly shattering the relative calm Georg has been cultivating in the room since they arrived. “I felt – you know… something was _weird_ and then I felt like _that_ and I knew something was off and then I had to come here because you did the _thing…_ ” He waves his hands, fading off in vague gestures with his hands but astonishingly enough Georg understands what he means perfectly. Part of living with the twins getting used to deciphering things like that, and Georg has been friends with Bill and lovers with Tomi for years now. The twin bond means both Bill and Tomi have a preternatural sense of when the other is unwell, or scared, or sad or needs help, or just needs a hug. It’s come in handy a time or two in the past, God knows. Fans are sneaky people, and security can’t be everywhere at once.  
  
That Bill has arrived to save the day or at least create enough mitigating drama to help Tomi by distracting her is no surprise to anyone who knows the twins; Georg knows them well enough by now to never be surprised by anything they do. Tomi’s just as good at knowing where Bill is or how he’s feeling; she’s just not as … _loud_ about it as her younger twin. 

Behind the still wildly gesticulating Bill, Gustav pokes his head around the door, checking to see if everything is all clear. Unlike the flamboyant singer, he maintains a much more cautious approach to dealing with Tomi during this time of the month – probably the reason why the guitarist loves the drummer and will gleefully mob him with hugs when he least expects it. On a day to day basis, he gives her peace and quiet when she requires it, and in return, she lends him an ear or a guitar when Gustav feels like talking or just jamming out and making music. On days like today, however, if she and Georg weren’t happily together, she’d probably kiss Gustav because of what he’s carrying…

In the drummer’s hands is a tray with four gently steaming mugs, a little white pill box and a blue hot water bottle, covered in a thick woolly sleeve. Heaven in the arms of a drummer, Georg has privately dubbed it. 

He’s gonna make someone a fine husband one day, Bill has said more than once, and Tomi always nods her head emphatically. There are many more reasons why the drummer would make a good house husband, but _this_ right now is probably why Gustav will never ever be divorced. No woman could turn this down every month.

Carefully, he scuffs his way around the coffee table and the other couch, and Bill steals a mug off the tray as the blonde goes by; the palm tree spread of his hair bounces as he sashays (yes, Georg knows that Bill is male but he can _sashay_ as well as any girl the bassist has been with) over to the other couch, where he artfully collapses into it, long arms and mile long legs akimbo on the seat. His face relaxes as he leans over the mug, and Georg soon sees why as Gustav brings the tray down to their height. 

On the tray are now three steaming mugs of Gustav’s legendary hot chocolate with real cream, marshmallows and chocolate powder dusted over the top (“ _So many calories!”_ Bill is always saying mournfully as he tries to ignore the mug Gustav will try to hand him to which Tomi always replies, “ _Well, you need them. Hopefully, they’ll all go to your ass!”_ as she hands him a mug while she takes her own, forcing the white china into his manicured hands. And Bill will pretend sulk and Tomi will curl up next to her twin to pretend sulk right back at him and they’ll sit there for hours while sharing both mugs between them and watch shitty movies and have their famous ‘Twin Time’) and Georg can barely keep his mouth from watering. 

Say what you like about drummers, they have _mean_ cooking skills. Or at least Gustav does. 

He takes the one for him, and then the one that Gustav indicates with a raised brow that is Tomi’s (it has extra whipped cream in, and all the pink marshmallows on it that Gustav can get his hands on, because that’s how he makes Tomi feel special without embarrassing her), and then Gustav puts the tray down on the table and hands Tomi the hot water bottle. She makes this half pained/half pleasure sound that no matter he’s tried, Georg can’t get her to reproduce for anything other than a **hot** hot water bottle, and she shoves it under her oversized hoodie with one hand. The other is already accepting the pills that Gustav has popped for her from the little foil tabs. 

“You need them.” Gustav says quietly because she’s making a face at them – they’re the strongest dose possible, and Bill hates them and so does Tomi because they’ve both got addictive personalities out the wazhoo and are terrified of getting a taste for them. The whole band has experience with said personalities; they’ve all tried alcohol and cigarettes and both are dangerous as **fuck** around the twins. Two weeks, and they were both hooked on the fags as chain smokers and it took just six weeks before Simone and David had to put their collective foot down and demand they stop. 

So they did. 

_ Together.  _

Georg _and_ Gustav _and_ the twins as well because once you were in Tokio Hotel, that was how you did everything: **Together**. Quitting smoking was the hardest thing they’ve ever done as a band because there was no way the twins could have done it on their own, especially at sixteen, but the constant needling for nicotine had rubbed them all up the wrong way, making them vindictive and argumentative with everyone from their parents to each other.  
  
The first day alone had nearly killed the whole Tokio Hotel thing for good – Bill was a bitch when he was deprived, Tomi could dig her claws in as good as any Hollywood socialite, Gustav threw things and Georg moped for hours. By day three, things were looking up but not by much….  
  
Several months on, Georg hasn’t regretted it since; he likes not having to go out in the rain or the bitter German winters, not to mention having extra money in his pocket; but David still bitches about it - the sheer level of swearing at each other made half the Tokio Hotel TV footage all but unusable during those first few days. These painkillers will be worse, much worse, if they get hooked. When Gustav pulls them out, it’s bad because the drummer knows just how scared they are of them. 

She doesn’t argue – another bad sign – and just takes the little while capsules without another word.       

Georg hands her the mug that’s laden with a pink cascade of marshmallows as watches as she turns it this way and that. “You couldn’t fit any more on,” she whispers to herself in awe, as the whole thing wobbles precariously. Gustav pinks slightly (he _may_ have gone **slightly** overboard but if it makes Tomi happy…) and she uses two of those long delicate fingers to pluck one straight off the top. “Mmm, that’s goo’” she says, smiling first at Georg, then Gustav while devouring more as fast as she can. 

Sweet toothed Tomi. 

They sit there, all four of them in the green room with the hideous art and a coffee machine that’s possessed by the devil itself and the couches that have no padding left in them, and drink Gustav’s amazing hot chocolate and gradually Tomi relaxes into the sofa, into Georg’s side until he can stroke a hand all the way from her hip to her jaw, and she smiles up at him from where she’s laying against him, biting at her lip ring. Her eyes say, “ _I’m sorry for being horrible to you_.”

Georg lets his say back, “ _I love you_.”

She blushes and Georg thinks she is beautiful even as she looks away from him.

 

 

\--

 

And now - picspam!

  
So here. Have some Gustav and Georg. Because they're both sweeties...

 

 

 

and here's another!

 

 

 


	2. Part Two

 

**Part Two**

  
**_....the words aren't important..._**

  
  


During the show, Georg realises how short term their green room solution was.

Right from the start, Tomi is _tight_ as she plays – exactly as she shouldn’t be, like she’s lectured others on being time and time again; her shoulders are pulled up and her strides as she moves around the stage are small and she can’t stay still for very long, shuffling around the lower platform in her oversized clothes, all hunched over her guitar. Her face is drawn, pale under the flashing lights and Bill keeps going back over to sing to her as an excuse to put his arm around her, or to touch her – to pass along some more strength. After her guitar solo, she doesn’t smile as wide as she normally does, and Bill has to go over to her to remind her to play up to the crowd; to be the Tomi they expect. But Bill is only one person; he can’t do it very often and by the midpoint, and Gustav’s drum solo, she’s flagging badly.

Handing off her guitar to the roadie on her side of the stage, she stumbles, nearly falls down the steps if it wasn’t for Bill and his alarmingly good twin reflexes. Georg looks down at his own hand – it’s reached out of its own accord to try to save her even though he’s standing thirty feet away from her. He wishes he could have been there instead of Bill.

He hands off his own guitar, barely registering the roadie who takes it from his hands as he runs around to the back of the stage where the others have surely gone. Inside the green room, they can hear the crowd but it’s muffled through the soundproofing, a dull roar instead of the crashing wave of sound it is on stage. He’s the first to arrive of the three – the twins sprinting through the door a few seconds later but it’s not happy, joyful running like they usually do between sets. Whereas Bill and Georg head straight for the refreshment table, dying for some sugar to replace the energy they just gave out, Tomi darts past security and straight into the disabled loo set aside for them specifically, her expression sending staff diving out of her way. The door bangs shut behind her but they can still hear over the crowd outside the sound of vomit hitting the porcelain. All Gustav’s lovingly made hot chocolate from earlier going to waste, Georg thinks before she retches again and Bill looks green as he puts down the chocolate bar he was going to offer to his sister.

_Ew._

Five minutes later, she emerges, wiping her mouth with one hand and the other pressing against her belly. Props herself in the doorway, looks at him with that sort of pleading look in her eyes that asks, “ _Can I have a hug?”_ and Georg opens his arms to her. No hesitation; she’s straight in there, pressing her head right over his heart, curling her arms around him in a bear hug that says, _gimme comfort_ and _oh God, I need you_ and that’s  just _Tomi_ all over. She won’t say it out loud, so he’s gotten good at deciphering the look in her eyes, the curve of her lips, and the minute movements of her hands. The whole band can read her, but he’s the resident ~~second~~ expert. He folds his arms around her, pressing his lips to the top of her head and murmurs something into her dreadlocks. The words aren’t important, the feeling of him being all around her is; he’s learnt that time and time again; she wants to _feel_ him, not hear him when she’s like this.

All too soon though, the moment is over and Gustav comes running offstage to take a break as well. Tomi shovels chewing gum into her mouth like it’s going out of fashion after she brushes her teeth with a toothbrush and toothpaste supplied by David and then they have to be back on stage again for their lovely, if loud, fans.

Georg wishes he could just spirit Tomi away, stick her in bed and climb in after but it’ll take more than the Red Fairy to stop her from playing for the fans. He knows. He’s tried, they all have but she’s having none of it. “ _I owe them,”_ she says adamantly, and the sad truth is she does, in a weird way. Being the lead guitarist **and** female means she’s showing a generation of girls that they can also be the best in a male dominated world of music, don’t have to stand down to the boys or play second fiddle (or the bass) to a male of the species. It means as well that she’s uncomfortably aware of that honour; thinks it means she has to be her best every damn time, can’t show any weakness at all so when it comes to times like this, she just marches on.

One day, she’ll remember that being in the band doesn’t mean she has to hide away from days like these, that she can accept that she’ll be less than perfect sometimes and the world won’t end.

When they get back on stage, Georg wanders over during one of Bill’s interludes with the crowd and Tomi doesn’t even notice him shuffling alongside her until his bass taps lightly on her arm. She gives him a half smile, gnawing on her lip piercing like there’s no tomorrow and Georg rubs a hand along her shoulder as Bill winds up with the crowd before leaping into another song. All too soon, he has to vanish over the other side of the stage and that last touch is hardly enough to sustain him to the end of the show.

He’s going to have to think of a more long term solution than this, he thinks to himself as he leaps off the ramp. This isn’t going to work.

 

 

\--

And again, picspamming!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/snowstormskies/pic/0000q51s/) (from lonelinesshurt's tumblr)

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/snowstormskies/pic/0000rkhw/) (from tokioholic's tumblr)

 

(from whenthesparksbecamefire's tumblr)

 

 


	3. Part Three

 

 

_**Part Three** _

_**....time to get this show on the road....  
** _

 

The show is over. 

They’ve said their last _thank yous_ and _goodbyes_ and _you’re the greatest fans ever!_ and now it’s time for them to cut loose and go home. Or a hotel room, at least, but that’s a home away from home right now. Georg can’t take another night being trussed up on the bus; because there he can’t be with Tomi, can’t sleep next to her because when’s she’s like this she wants space and one thing the bus doesn’t have? Is space.  

David takes them to the hotel – a massive white and grey skyscraper of rooms stacked on top of each other with windows glinting from the streetlights  – and it takes forever to get inside because there are fans there as well and it’s getting late and they’re all extremely tired but they owe their fans and it takes them _forty fucking minutes_ to go from the curb to the doors – all of about fifteen feet, but there’s always just one more thing to sign, one more set of photos to be taken, one more person to talk to. Finally, Saki pulls them away from the ever growing crowd, ushering them inside much to everyone’s relief. In the marble lobby, they stand around their pile of bags, waiting for David’s list of things to do tomorrow; he’s always got one and tonight’s going to be no different. He’s over at the receptionist counter, signing paperwork but there’s a clipboard beside him and that means a really long fucking talk. Great. Just great. Georg can’t wait for tomorrow, it’s a bus day so he can sleep in as long as he li– 

“Here.” Gustav slides something into his hands while they’re waiting for room keys. It’s cool between his tired fingers, feels like a little glass bottle. What the…?

Georg opens his hand just enough to see what it, and grins widely. Massage oil, according to the label, clary sage scent with ginger. That’s Gustav right there – Georg vaguely mentions something on the bus over about giving Tomi a massage, and the drummer magically produces something to help Georg with his plan; the man will one day plan his bloody _wedding_ , Georg is sure of that. He lets his eyes say _thank you_ because Tomi is close by and he doesn’t want to tip her off to his plan for tonight, but Gustav just smirks and turns a little pink again; he’s saying he needs no thanks, he’s just being a friend. Georg makes a note to slip the drummer some nice beer at the club when they’re next out, or buy him breakfast tomorrow, anyway. He’ll owe him big time. 

They get to their rooms in peace – one each, even though Georg is sure to give Tomi a second key card to his room and Bill slips him her second one; David knows the whole band will be in and out of each other’s rooms all night long so it doesn’t bother him, this covert dealing of plastic and electronic chips like it used to. Even though the twins are still underage, still five months from eighteen, there’s nothing he can do about it; the twins have spoken and the twins get their way. A lot. Georg and Gustav just reap the benefits. 

Tomi kisses him goodnight outside her door, running her hand down his arm to briefly squeeze at his fingers before banging the door shut behind her and he carries on to his own room. Inside his head, though, he’s already half way inside Tomi’s room again; wondering if she’s climbing in the shower, stripping down for him, running her down that smooth belly, pressing against those wonderful bre-… It takes him at least a minute to realise he’s standing in front of his door, key card at the ready while he’s standing there, day-dreaming into nothing. He blinks, frowns at his wayward hand that has pressed itself to his groin without his permission. God, he needs to get his head together, he thinks to himself as he opens the door and throws his bag onto the sofa by the window. 

Time to get this show on the road. 

He goes to the bathroom, strips down, showers quickly. Tonight isn’t about him, so he doesn’t bother to deal with the erection that grows under the pressure from the shower heads, doesn’t take the time to wank away the tension of tonight in the hot water and steam like he normally would after a stressful show; instead he focuses on getting clean and being quick so he catches Tomi before she goes to sleep. All it takes is fifteen minutes to wash himself and dry his hair with the hairdryer provided – he’ll live with it being curly as fuck tomorrow, he decides on seeing his straighteners because frankly: _effort_ – before he slings it up into a pony tail that she loves to see him with ( _“You look so… **hot** with it” she told him late one night in Paris after a concert_ ) and he starts preparing the room. 

It’s not much to prepare but he likes to do things properly, not half assed like some guys he knows. It only takes a few minutes: Georg dims the lights, strips back the covers of the bed, lays out towels over the sheets to make sure the oil won’t cause a mess (not because he cares about the sheets but because Tomi hates mess), closes the curtains and turns up the heating. He wants it to be warm in here because though there are few turn offs for Tomi, cold is one of them and he wants her as relaxed and _zenned out_ as possible. In his bag, he finds his i-Pod, plugs it into the docking station and selects a calming soundtrack of relaxation music a certain _someone_ sent to him ( _Gustav_ being a wonderful enabler of seduction and good boyfriendly acts); the music adds the finishing touch to the whole atmosphere of restful peace. He stands back, surveys the room, wonders if he’s missed anything. Too late to do anything about it now, he thinks, as he turns to the door to go and retrieve his wayward girlfriend. 

Right on cue, he hears a knock on the door, a quiet _tap tap_ that tells him all he needs to know. It’s Tomi, come to him for some comfort and cuddles, and a warm body to curl up next to. It’s what the guitarist always wants after a show that doesn’t go like she wanted it to, the perfectionist in her needing reassurance after a bad performance. She’ll get that, he thinks to himself as he goes to open the door for her, she’ll get that and more. 

Outside, the hall way is cool, and Tomi is small as she stands in front of him; she’s wearing one of her oversized t-shirts – grey this time, with _California Kings_ on it in block script, but not much else and Georg feels himself warm as she squeezes past him in the doorway; he can tell from even that brief touch she’s not wearing a bra underneath that thin cotton layer; just panties. He has to clench his hand tight shut because now’s not the time to be thinking with his dick, despite the fact that it’s rising to the occasion at an impressive rate under his own black cotton boxers and bathrobe.

“Hi.” She says, standing in front of the bed, looking confused at it – no duvet, pillows pushed out of the way, covered in towels. She waves a hand over it, asking curiously “What’s going on?”

He grins, says nothing; let her wonder a little longer.  

He strolls over to her, bends his neck to kiss her firmly on those full lips. He wanted to make it sweet and light, a mere press of their lips together, but she doesn’t care for that plan: it turns into a deep one, with her tongue slick against his and her hands wandering around his chest beneath the terrycloth. He groans into the kiss – he could die happy doing this, he knows he could – and lets his hands capture the hem of her shirt. She breaks the kiss, breathing hard – “What are you doing?” she says, but Georg shushes her with his mouth again before pulling the voluminous fabric over her head, letting her dreadlocks slide out of the neck with a rasp. 

He was right. No bra; just panties. Black boy shorts, dark against Tomi’s faintly tanned skin, showing all those fine curves off under his eager gaze. 

She bends her head, tucks her arms over her breasts and Georg can see her cheeks flushing in the warm yellow light; he steps back to admire her more. Tomi doesn’t pose for him, keeps one arm over her chest, the other curling around that taut belly but she doesn’t have to pose to make it sexy as all hell; Georg can appreciate all of her just as she is. She’s not proud of her body, thinks that she’s too short, doesn’t have curves or big breasts like the girls in the hip-hop videos that she so religiously used to watch but Georg loves her just the way she is in this moment, however cliché that sounds. 

Smooth, firm curves, breasts just big enough to fill his hands, and muscles in her that mean he can push and push and push and not worry about breaking a bone or leaving bruises when they’re both desperate and aching for human contact like some of the girls he’s had, not to mention when she takes over and he lets her do the work when the mood takes them – that’s just… Oh, those are some of his favourite memories of them. They both like that – her on top, him underneath, Tomi controlling the pace and depth, his hands just holding onto her hips to steady her, staring into each other’s eyes as they move as one. She’s not short, either, fitting neatly under his chin when he’s hugging her, able to reach down and feel those beautiful globes of her ass without breaking his back, covering them with wide palms and long fingers. 

She always slaps his shoulder when does that in public. He knows she likes it. She’d tell him to stop if she did. 

“Hey, hey…” he says when she goes to reach for the t-shirt he’s still holding. “Don’t…” she drops her hand, leaves the other arm over her breasts. She looks around for something to distract her attention from her almost nudity.

“What’s going on?” she asks again, “Why the… this?” _Articulate there, Tomi_ he thinks, rolling his eyes a bit as he chuckles and she blushes again, knowing what he’s thinking. 

“Lie down. On your front.” He directs instead, pulling the tie of his robe open. 

“Why?”

“ _Tomi._ ” He says. Trust me, he asks with his eyes, with his open hands to her. She stares at him, eyes narrowed and faintly suspicious.  

“Georg, I can’t… Not tonight.” she indicates with a brush of a hand over the front of her underwear that she’s not into sex now but that’s not why Georg asked her here, and he won’t push her to make love with him tonight; in this room right now, it’s all about her, not **him** or even _them_. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles at her, lets her know that she hasn’t offended him with her refusal of him (fat chance of that – he’s earned his reputation of being the most laid person in the world for a reason), strips the robe off. “Promise.” 

She smiles, happy again now that she knows she’s not going to have him mad at her for cock blocking him. Like he ever _would_ but Tomi worries about things like that, always hates it when there’s an imbalance when one of them wants sex and the other doesn’t. She lies down on the bed without another word, pulls the towel covered pillow underneath her chest to make it comfortable, and Georg leaves her there for a moment while he goes to the bathroom for the massage oil he left warming in a sink of hot water. He stops in the doorway, on his way back through, amazed by what he sees. 

The curves of her spine are beautiful, dips and waves in the half-light; her arms spread up to cradle her under the pillow, her face half hidden by shadow, but her lips are twisted in a coy smile as she stares at Georg, her eyes fluttering closed over dark dark eyes. Her legs slip apart, just enough to remind him of all the times he’s been between them, her ankles crossed in the small of his back, or those firm thighs either side of his hips as she rides him in the dark enclosure of his tiny bunk on the bus, biting those such kissable lips as she tries to stay as quiet as possible and he’s biting his own fingers to try not to wake up the other two sleeping not six feet away. She knows exactly what she’s doing to him, can see the result in his boxers but he’s better than that, knows exactly what she’s doing and doesn’t let her win the game they’ve been playing since he was sixteen and she was barely fourteen. Instead, he takes the bottle in his hand, throws it up in the air, catches it, and smirks. The moment is broken, deliberately shattered by his stupid move, and she laughs. “Hagen!” she giggles at him, and he grins widely back at her. She’s not playing with him seriously, and he knows it; it’s all just fun and games.

He’s wasted enough time now – the night’s a-wasting. 

Bringing with him another towel, he climbs on the bed, balancing on his knees till he’s by her side. He throws the towel over her hips, tucking it into the waistband of her underwear so it doesn’t slip off later, and then straddles her ass. God, that’s a good feeling, her warm skin heating his even through two sets of underwear and a towel, and he finds himself automatically positioning his own hips just at the perfect place for his dick to rest between those glorious cheeks but Georg has more self-restraint than that. 

Only just, though. He still has to breathe deep and look at the ceiling until he’s ready to focus properly on the correct task at hand. 

Instead of rutting shamelessly like he normally would if she was feeling … _naughty_ …, he breathes in deeply to concentrate and focuses his mind on making Tomi feel better. When he’s composed himself, he opens the little bottle of oil, running a finger down her back to warn her of the different feelings that are coming. She murmurs her acknowledgement before he drips the clear fluid carefully down the beautiful line of Tomi’s spine that he knows so well now. It smells warm, ginger and clary sage melding together to turn the room around them from a boring hotel suite to a haven of exotic delight. She responds just as he thought she would; the slight rippling of muscles like a stone dropped in a pool, a muffled “ _Georg_?” as she feels the different sensations of the oil on her skin. It’s also so subtle, so quiet in the stillness of the room but he shushes her, trailing more warm oil up and down her back, creating mindless patterns as he goes. She murmurs something that Georg doesn’t catch and subsides into silence again. 

When he’s pushed the cap back on the bottle, he puts it down beside him for later, rubs his hands together quickly to warm them up. Cold hands/hot oil is a weird combination, can be pleasant but it’s not one the girl beneath him enjoys; they’ve found that out the hard way very early on in the game. When he’s ready, he places his hands on Tomi’s hips, just letting her adjust to the newest sensation that’s assaulting her body; her sensitivity to touch means that this for him would be intriguing, something to enjoy, to relish in the range of feelings experienced. For her, it’s one of the most intense things she’ll have felt all day, every nerve singing with the warmth of his fingers, something she has to work to get used to. She breathes deeply, in and out, adjusting to the feeling on him on her. He lets her take her time, waiting for his Tomi to give him the go ahead. He only moves when she gives him a little sigh, the one that says “ _Go ahead, Hagen…”_ and he knows she won’t object to what he plans next. 

He draws his hands up her back, smearing the oil into her skin, feeling the heat of her flesh seep into his. She groans under the pressure as he smooths his hands back down again, feeling her ribs under his fingers, the bumps of the bones in her spine creating interesting landmarks for his sensitive guitarist fingers to explore. He pushes deep into her shoulders, drawing out the tension that she’s been holding all day, presses the heels of his hands over her shoulder blades to force out the stress she secretes in the muscles over the fragile bones there. She groans underneath him, a deep one that makes his hands vibrate where they’re running down her ribs on their travels. 

“That good?”

“’Mazing.” She mumbles back at him, but he already knew. She’s half way to limp and pliant already now, her arms loose as he rolls his hands over her shoulders, reaching down her upper arms to relieve the tension that guitarists collect from instruments and playing styles. He goes back for more oil, creating a little swirl at the nape of her neck, careful to avoid her dreadlocks as he paints a shaky G onto her skin there. He smirks at it, wonders one day if he might convince her to put a tattoo of his name someday on her pretty skin, before putting down the oil and using his hands to wipe the slick fluid all around that long swan’s neck, lightly pressing his fingers into the deep muscles around the cervical vertebra – he remembers that much from his biology lessons at school, even if they were a million years ago. She mutters something, and he adjusts his stroke accordingly; lighter, lighter, so light he might as well not be touching her at all – she rolls her shoulders at the tickling, protesting his teasing, and he gives into her demands again, pressing slightly hard to create a dip in her skin, not enough to cause pain but enough so she can feel it.  
  
Tomi mumbles her thanks, the actual words lost into the pillow that she’s resting on. He smooths his fingers down her arms, up again over her shoulders, trails them down the ripples of ribs to the base of her spine, gently pushing the heels of his hands into the tight muscles there. She whimpers, and he stills his movements for a moment. 

“Hurts?”

“Mm…No…” She doesn’t say anything else, and Georg takes it that she meant for him to continue. 

He carries on with the massage as the i-Pod switches songs, turns to a headier, sultrier melody with a drum beat rather than the sound of bells and running water. His hands are aching pleasantly as he continues on his mission, stretching out his hands occasionally as they get used to the constant movement. Beneath them, her skin is warming under his fingers, the blood rushing to the surface as he sinks his knuckles either side of her spine, drags them down to hear her groan into the pillow. She rocks her pelvis under his, but neither of them comments on it – right now, that’s not where she wants the pleasure and he’s happy for her to control that part of this. 

Several minutes of this pass, him just massaging her, chipping away at the tension until he’s sure that her back is as loose and de-stressed as he’s ever going to get it. He presses his fingers into the small of her back, only lightly, to check, and she barely twitches, her sensitivity all played out for the moment. The air smells like ginger and clary sage and something more potent under the thin veneer of _hotel room_ and _just helping out_ and only when he’s absolutely sure they’re both ready for the next level does he move.  

“Turn over.” He says, lifting himself up off of her to let her twist around beneath him. The air is cold against his thighs. 

“…What?” He almost could laugh at her confused voice as she turns to look back at him with a sweetly lost expression. 

“Turn. _Over_.” He makes it simple for her, holding onto her hips and pulling to help her move and she follows without thinking, shoving the pillow out of the way to lie on her back, flat on the towel covered mattress. She grumbles as she’s forced to lift herself up again to move the towel from around her hips, repositioning it hastily as her panties start to slip down. He enjoys the view, lets her know just what he’s thinking with a daring finger across the newly exposed skin and she pouts at him. Georg knows she got her revenge though when her groin presses against his for a second when she arches up to shift the towel again, just enough to tempt him, to make him start to tip over the mark of half hard into wanting more. “Minx.” He says fondly as she grins lazily up at him, not bothering to hide the fact she did it on purpose. She looks like a satisfied cat, all warm and contented, but Georg knows she’ll change that expression in a second. 

He reaches for the oil again, unscrewing the cap with some difficulty before holding it over her belly. She looks at him, looks at the bottle, and raises one eyebrow in a challenge. 

“Do your worst, _Georg_ …” she dares, closing her eyes as she dismisses him, turns her hands upwards in a gesture of nonchalance that doesn’t fool him for a minute. He chuckles. Permission to do as he pleases, then. 

Georg trickles the oil onto her belly, experimenting with the height of the bottle and the speed of the flow to create new sensations, enjoying how her skin twitches and moves with each new drop of oil, each new splash and trickle of heat. He grins when she wriggles but obliges her again, putting the bottle down in order to begin moving his hands through the slick on her belly, sliding them up towards her chest. He stops shy of her breasts, leaving them alone for the moment, and he laughs again when he sees her looking at him, her lips in a pout; she wanted him to touch her _there_. When she goes to do herself, he knocks her hand aside gently but firmly. 

“No… Let me…” he says, and she sighs, that lip piercing getting a thorough chewing as she puts her hands down to grip at the sheets, resisting the urge to take over where she wants to. 

He carries on, doing his best to make her relaxed and limp like he did on her back. He digs his fingers in hard, pushing the heels of his hands into the meat of her belly, the neat little curves of her hips, the more prominent ridges of her ribs from this side. He finds something he didn’t know before; the cute little dip of her belly button that makes her squirm when he runs his fingers over it. This is why he loves her – every time they do something like this, just exploring each other’s bodies, there is always something new to learn, something different to take advantage of. 

He slides his hands lower, into her belly and he feels the vague twitching of the muscles of her abdomen, the deep deep smooth muscle flickering inside her that he knows one day will help to bring a child into the world by moving and tensing **_together_** ( _not yet, but **soon**_ ) – but now, all they’re doing is hurting Tomi, even though she won’t admit to it out loud so he digs his fingers in, pushing away the tension and the tight feelings that he can sense, stroking his fingers deep into her. She sighs, squirms a bit but she doesn’t tell him to stop, and that’s the important thing. He feels the muscles relaxing slightly but he carries on until he can’t feel them twitch or move any more, until Tomi’s absolutely zenned out in that area and doesn’t even react to pressure there much anymore. 

Turning to something different, he massages her arms, pulling them towards him to get better coverage; she flexes her fingers involuntarily as he kisses each one before using his larger hands to ease out the tension, soothing away the aches and pains of two hours of constant playing. As he lowers her left hand, he looks to her face and sees her eyes are open, staring at him as she licks that puffy lower lip that he wants to just bite so softly that she whimpers into his mouth for more. He strokes his fingers down both her wrists at once and she watches him through catslit eyes, dark and hazy in the dim light. Georg loves this look on her – sultry and seductive without even trying. If it were another day, another time he’d press his lips to hers, to her neck and kiss his way down to her navel and then lower just to see the light in her eyes spark and flare from his touch alone. Tonight, though, he has other things planned. 

He carries on, seating himself more comfortably over her waist and she opens her eyes as he reaches for the oil again. He raises an eyebrow at her – she grins and shuts her eyes again. 

Play time is now. 

Reaching for the oil, he pours it into his right hand this time, and then casts the empty bottle aside. Rubbing his hands together, he slicks up both palms and all of his fingers, feeling the smooth glide of skin over skin, the heat of friction warmed flesh causing him to lose his own tension from playing the bass all night without even trying. When he’s ready, he stares at her, and she looks right back into him. She raises an eyebrow. _What are you gonna do about it, Hagen?_

_ This.  _

He reaches down, lays both hands over her breasts and she gasps at the overload of sensation, reaching up with both of her hands to lay them over the top of his. They stay like that for a minute, two minutes before she lets go but Georg knows it’s not her saying that she’s ready. She just trusts him to be patient. It takes several minutes for her to get used to it, to his whole hand over her breast, and he waits for her to catch back up to him. It might take a while; the intensity of the feelings running through her are incredible – Tomi once described it as a lightning storm beneath her flesh, hot roiling writhing electrical currents sending sparks and signals everywhere.  
  
It sounds like heaven on earth to feel but watching it is another brand of amazing from Georg’s perspective; the hitch of her breath, the line of her throat as she throws back her head, the grind of her hips that move unconsciously underneath him. She breathes deeply, shuddering as she releases yet more tension and Georg finds himself yet again absolutely captivated by the girl beneath him. Just by laying his hands on her, he’s rendered her speechless, incapable of movement or conscious thought; the intensity that she feels and experiences is _beautiful_ to watch, to adore, and be the cause of. 

“S’okay _…”_ She says when she’s calmed down a little, pushing her chest a little further up to tell him to move. “It’s okay…” 

He doesn’t waste any more time, massaging with both hands, creating a duality of feelings; pinching both nipples softly, rubbing around the puffy raised areolas, trailing down to her shoulders and back again. Under him, she groans and gasps, but it’s from relaxation, and the slow lazy burn of the kind of arousal that just pools under the skin but doesn’t ask for release; it’s not the overwhelming crush of desire that usually accompanies them into hotel rooms like this after concerts. Georg can feel the same burning in his own groin, the same warming surge of pleasure that doesn’t demand anything be done with it – only that it be enjoyed, prolonged, and experienced properly. She reaches up again and places her hands on his wrists, but he doesn’t tell her to put them down, and she doesn’t try to control anything. 

His hands move, and she follows; long guitarist fingers wrapped loosely around his wrists, the human warmth of her seeping through the thin skin over the veins in his forearms. 

When he breathes in, he’s struck by a thought so strong it makes his movements stutter for a second, makes him shudder. He feels **alive**. In this moment, in this hotel room, surrounded by the scent of ginger and clary sage, with the woman he loves beneath him, he feels so fucking _alive_ that his bones quake and the breath in his lungs turns hot then cold by turns. Every part of him is focused on what he can feel, what he can taste, what he can see _._ Every breath she takes, he feels it through his body, every little movement that she makes he can see in stark clarity, every time she squeezes his wrists in pleasure, he gets a jolt, a bolt of lightning that says, _I am human, and I am alive._ He feels invigorated, but at the same time like he could just sit here and do this together, playing with her body, connecting to her without sex but still in the most erotic way he can remember. 

When he opens his eyes again ( _when did he close them?_ ) she’s still there, her hands wrapped around his wrists, no pressure, no demands to move. Just her skin on his, warmth radiating between them. Waiting for him. She’s looking at him with those dark dark eyes and he sees the naked truth reflected back at him – _I know_ the gaze says, _I know how you feel._ And then…

_ I feel it too.  _

He moves his hands again, slowly, unsure like he hasn’t been since he was just shy of seventeen and having sex for the very first time with her, but she’s right there with him, exactly as she was then, and they move as one – her hands on top of his guiding him through the movements until he’s ready to come back to himself a little more. For a moment, there’s her in control and him following her lead just like it was all those years ago, but slowly, slowly, slowly, the power begins to shift back the way it was when this started. He breathes in, once, twice, a third time - lets it out through his nose to ground himself again, and then gradually, she reduces the pressure, and he starts to control more and more of their movements until it’s like it didn’t happen, the little mini meltdown mid-massage. 

Only when she’s absolutely sure that he’s okay, that he’s back in the room with her completely does Tomi stop looking at him with that burning intensity that sears into his soul, stop searching his face for signs of distress or needing comfort. He gives her a little half-smile, one that says, _I’m okay now_ and she lets hers say back, _I love you._ He grins wider. It’s a good feeling, the _best_ feeling in the world when she says that to him. 

He carries on stroking at her breasts, massaging them until she’s even more of a Tomi-puddle of pleasurable mess beneath him but she’s not looking for orgasm tonight, and he can tell; her breathing is calm and even, her hips aren’t grinding into his, her lips aren’t getting chewed as she demands _begs_ asks for relief and kisses and his fingers between her thighs, or his dick pressing home into the heat of her core. He’s not worried – she told him sex wasn’t why she came to him, and he’s happy that he just made her feel good. 

The i-Pod shifts again, a much more soothing tune that speaks of sleep and dreams and warm beds, and Georg begins to wind down the massage – Tomi’s absolutely boneless beneath him as she’s halfway to sleep already, and he’s tired as well now. The concert took it out of him; took it out of both of them. He wipes off his hands with a handy towel and she notices the movement, opening her eyes. She nods at him and runs her hands up his thighs – _thank you_ she says with her eyes and her fingers, and means it. Another night, he might have used that as an excuse to slide down, open her thighs to expose her most intimate parts to his sight and she would let him, reaching for his shoulders and biting his ear as she whispers what she wants into it, but tonight is not that night. Her eyes are sleepy as they gaze into his and he’s not far behind. 

She moans at him when he gets off her, the air cool on the areas that were covered by his body but he runs a hand down her side and she gives him a shy little smile that says to him, _hurry up and come back to bed_ and he does hurry through the next few minutes – softly wiping down the excess oil from her with a spare towel, turning off the music, and dimming the lights before he scoops up the duvet and throws it on the bed with both hands. She huffs as she is covered with the mass of white downy material and he laughs as she fights her way out again, blowing away a stray dreadlock when she finally reappears. 

“ _Thanks_ , Hagen.” She says, wrinkling her nose but she’s grinning and so’s he as he climbs back into the giant bed. 

“You feeling better, now?” He asks, after turning out the last light in the room – his bedside one – and he can feel her nod as she settles onto his chest, feeling the interesting sensations of her dreads over his nipple as she moves to find the most comfortable position on him so she can sleep. 

“Mmm…” she sounds distracted and Georg wonders why – Ah. A hand has appeared at the waist of his boxers, a sly female hand with guitarist’s callouses and a black cord bracelet that he gave to her when he was fifteen. She never takes it off. 

“What are you –“ he starts to ask but she makes it quite clear when he feels her hand dipping below the elastic, touching him where he’s half hard and vaguely interested. “You don’t have to-” he tries to say, but she’s having none of it. 

“Let me pay you back. At least a little…” she asks, pulling at his arm with her other hand to make him roll onto his side and he follows obediently to face her in the darkness – the massage was his show, but she’s in control of the encore, it seems. 

Underneath the covers, the air is hot against his damp skin and he rolls his hips into her hands to get the pleasure going but Tomi has other plans for the moment. Using both hands now, she draws his boxers down, leaving them half way to his knees before placing one delicate hand on his shaft and he groans in her ear as she crowds closer. It feels so intimate – he can feel her legs tangled with his, her breasts pressed up against his chest, touching his skin with as much of her own as possible, all the while stroking him, pulling his pleasure out him with slow, confident motions that tell of the hours upon hours of practise she’s had with him and his body, learning every part of him – how to make him laugh, cry, beg and plead.  
  
He rests his head on the pillow, holds onto her hips with both hands as he prepares to wait for her to whatever she wants, completely at her mercy as to how and when he comes. She nudges a knee between his thighs as he begins to feel a swell of heat rushing around his pelvis, and presses her thigh up to where he can reach down to grind against her. So that’s how she wants to play it – he has no objections. 

“ _Tomi…!”_  He moans, and she shushes him with a kiss – her lip ring catches on his tongue and he feels so good that he might melt right through the sheets. This is perfection; it’s slow, there’s no hurry in her steady movements, and he’s not in any rush either as he lazily grinds down on her still slightly slick thigh; the pleasure is hot, languid, and undemanding. He kisses her again and then again, enjoying feeling his tongue slip and slide against hers as her hands spread the precome from the head of his dick down the shaft, experience telling her where to tighten her grip, where to touch him with the lightest of presses, where is good for him and where isn’t. He moans into her mouth when she flicks her nail lightly against the slit, squeezing her hand tighter around him at the same time to send a spasm of **pleasure edged with pain** ricocheting up his spine. 

“Georg,” she says after another kiss, “ _Georg.”_

She’s not asking for permission, or even for reassurance ( _they’ve long since moved beyond that_ ) but just seeking his voice, to hear him in the dark, knowing that he’s there with her and he responds back, “ _Tomi!”_ as his orgasm builds ever higher. Her hands move faster now, the years of experience between them meaning she can control his pleasure absolutely and he moans again, “ _Tomi!”_ as she confidently guides him towards the peak of his climax, his head dipping down to rest on her shoulder as his hips grind out his pleasure into her thigh. He tries to speak, but he can’t find the words so he kisses her neck to try to tell her just how he feels in this moment, using his lips and tongue in a new way to express the feelings that course through his body. 

“I’m here, Georg.” She says, knowing exactly what he’s saying, what he’s asking with his mouth and his kisses, and her hands move much quicker now, and Georg feels his belly tighten as he dives headlong in to the white light behind his eyes, _(“I’m here….” She whispers in his ear)_ his orgasm rippling under his skin like a heat wave of pleasure. He groans low in his chest and she kisses him again, just pressing their lips together but the tongue ring catches so lightly on his bottom lip and that’s enough to push him that last inch over the edge; his dick spurts beneath her hands, and she catches it with the towel from around her waist ( _height of cleanliness, that’s Tomi_ ), softly milking him to prolong the exquisite pleasure that possesses him right now. 

It takes him several minutes to remember to open his eyes again, to come back into reality where he finds her carefully wiping his dick down, touching him only lightly on the sensitive flesh. It feels good; pleasurable without a demand for more and he lets her carry on, her fingers knowing exactly how to treat him post-climax. He’s now just as boneless as she is, feeling sleep tugging at his eyelids as he rolls onto his back, and she drops the towel off the edge of the bed before sliding back over to him to lie against his chest again.

“Next month?” He says, and he can feel her lips curve into a smile against his skin, the lip ring causing interesting sensations to emerge. 

“Next month.” She agrees. The Red Fairy won’t see what’s coming when she comes to visit next time. 

Gustav is so fucking getting the best breakfast of his _life_ tomorrow, Georg decides as he slips into sleep. The man is a genius…. 

 

 

\--- 

 

And that's it~

 

And because I'm me, here's some more picspammage for you. 

 

Let's start with some more Georg pics!

 

 

(from Tokioholic's tumblr)

 

 

This is one of my favourites of him - so serene.... from lonelinesshurts tumblr...

 

  


 Now for something even more interesting~ Feminine Tom (Tomi)! I only picked real pics - no fanarts this time - and despite the fact that Bill RIGHT FROM THE START has pretty pictures everywhere, Tom insists on being true to his gender and looking like a boy except for a few precious snaps! 

  
  
Some of them aren't VERY feminine but you know... It's hard to find him looking girly and once he got the cornrows... Well, there was no chance after that.

 

 

  (from wonderfulhotel's tumblr)

 

   (A sweet one with Gustav, just because I can, from wonderfulhotel's tumblr)

 

(from tokioholic's tumblr)

 

Last Feminine Tom (Tomi)! I promise~

 

(from ichandeinerseite's tumblr)

  
I now present to you - Georg and Tom having a hug. Because it makes me cry, every time~

 

  (from pocon's tumblr)  
  
Look at the happiness on that man's face.   
  
And that's it. All done~

  


 

 

  


**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a cross post and the fic is COMPLETE. 
> 
> Links are provided to other locations where this story is archived - my journal is, however, f-locked and you'll need to friend me to get around it.


End file.
